The Haunted Mesa (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  “It is a custom of my people, often called ‘chivalry.’ Perhaps it is a foolish custom, but it is ours. I would not like to think of you slowly dying in there, beating upon the walls with those small fists, then adding your bones to those already there.”

  “You are a fool.” She said it but her tone was no longer so positive.

  “Of course,” he added, “I expect you planned on escaping after I was safely inside. I would be trapped. You would slip out before the door closed. Maybe they suggested that, but you see, they know. It cannot be done. That huge door is too heavy and there is no foothold, and no time. They were prepared for you to die with me.”

  She drew back from him. “It is not true.”

  “You know your people better than I. Possibly I am mistaken, but the impression I have is that everyone is expendable in your society. That is why it is dying.”

  “Dying?” Her contempt was obvious.

  “Walking through your city I passed many empty buildings, many unused. Obviously the population was once greater than it is today.

  “I have seen no signs of recent building. Your structures are all very old. Your world is static, and when a culture ceases to grow, it begins to decay. You could learn from the people in the mountains.”

  “There are no people in the mountains.”

  “You have been there to see?”

  She shrugged. “Who wishes to go there? It is nothing but a place of barren hills.”

  “You are not curious?”

  “What is ‘curious’? I do not know it. The mountains are a bore.”

  “And beyond them? Beyond the desert out there?”

  She shrugged again. “Why you speak of nothing? It is nothing out there.”

  “And the ruins?”

  “Ruins? I know of no ruins. This where we are is Shibalba. Shibalba is all.”

  “And what of me? Where do I come from?”

  She stared at him, disturbed and irritated. “It does not matter. You are wrong. You must not be. You do not belong among us. You do not belong anywhere.”

  He chuckled. “No doubt there are a lot of people who would agree with you.” He was wasting time. “I am going now. Follow, if you wish. If you doubt that your people care nothing for you, enter that room again. I promise you will never come out. Or go back and tell them you have failed. That I would not follow you.”

  Leaving her, he walked swiftly away. He would try the left-hand rule. It worked in many mazes. If it worked here, well and good. If not, he must begin over again. Regardless, he must beware of a loop that would bring him back where he began.

  Once, before making the next turn, he glanced back. She was still standing there, looking after him.

  Keeping his left hand on the wall, he followed it into a niche and out again. As he emerged, he made a chalk mark, then hurried on, keeping in mind the map taken from the Archives. He had but one wish now: to find Erik and get out of here, to get back to his own world—preferably with Kawasi beside him.

  What was it about her? Why should she, more than any girl he could remember, capture his attention? So little had passed between them; almost nothing had been said, and he had spent so little time in her company. Yet he could think of no one else. He wanted to think of no one else.

  The long halls were empty. At intervals there were closed doors, opening to what he could not guess. To traps? To living quarters? To storage rooms? Shrines? Each turn he marked with chalk so he would know where he had been.

  Unless someone realized what he was doing and followed, wiping out his marks.

  The place had a dank, musty odor that he did not like. The light, powered by some means he could not guess, was dim, so that objects could be seen but few details were visible.

  He slowed his pace. After leaving the girl who had tried to entrap him, he had seen no one. How far had he traveled, and how many turns? A dozen? Twenty? He had forgotten. His hand felt for his weapons. All were in place, and he had a feeling he would need them. His left hand on the wall, he turned again. The passage grew suddenly lighter, but here the reason was obvious. Near the top of the wall there were long, narrow windows. This then, must be an outside wall.

  Those openings to the outside were at least twelve feet above his head, impossible to reach because of the sheer wall, and what lay outside one could only guess.

  Pausing suddenly, he looked at the floor. Hurrying as he was, he had scarcely noticed the change in the footing, but he walked now on native rock, a dull, red rock not unlike that near the place he had come to think of as the Haunted Mesa.

  Suppose, in his own world, that this was actually Erik’s mesa, or close to it? Suppose there was an opening from inside here? Was that not one of the stories he had heard? That such an opening existed?

  If such there was, and he could find it, what a shortcut to escape when he had found Erik! No retracing his steps, but simply to plunge through, perhaps into the kiva itself!

  He paused to listen. Had he heard something? Some distant sound? Some still far-off pursuit?

  He hurried on, following every twisting turn of the labyrinth, always keeping his hand on the left wall. He turned suddenly to find himself in a hall of glass! Everywhere his eyes turned there was glass. There were glass walls, mirrors, walls he could see through to other glass walls beyond them. Now he must remember not to think he saw an opening, but always to keep his hand on that glass wall.

  His sense of direction, if he possessed such a thing, was completely gone. The convoluted twistings and turnings of the maze had taken care of that, and now all he had about him was glass. He remembered that when he was a boy working with the carnivals, there had often been sideshows with glass houses, and he had had to learn the way of getting in and out. Was this the same?

  He moved on, keeping his hand on the glass wall. He started forward and immediately smashed hard into glass. Keeping his hand on the glass, he turned more to the right. Again he smashed into glass.

  How could that be? He stood still and let his left hand follow the glass around. Finally, he found the opening and moved cautiously forward. He managed only a few feet and came up against glass again. Frustrated, he started to turn sharply away and for a moment lifted his left hand.

  Quickly, he put it back. In the same place? How could he know? And supposing some of these glass walls revolved? Suppose it was so arranged that the pressure of his step would make a sheet of plate glass swing around to cut him off?

  Cautiously, he moved on, slowly feeling his way along. At times he closed his eyes, and it was easier that way, for whatever he saw was deceptive.

  Was he going in a circle? There was nothing with which to mark his progress, as the chalk did not seem to work on the glass. Whether it was something to do with the chalk itself or the way the glass had been treated, the chalk would leave no mark.

  He turned and turned again, his fingers following the wall, and suddenly it came to an edge. He felt around it. There was a mirror opposite him in which he could see himself and all the glass behind him, but on his left there was an opening back into the maze.

  Pausing in the shadows of the door he consulted the old map. The blank wall before him should be the place of The Hand. To his right and some thirty feet away was another passage, and the doors to the six cells, if they were such, opened off that passage. There, too, was the guardroom.

  He had until now been impossibly lucky. His quick study of the map and some slight knowledge of mazes had helped. The maze, after all, seemed quite simple. Yet what if he had not seen the map beforehand, and had not held to the left-hand rule?

  He could easily have spent days wandering in the glass maze alone, to say nothing of what had gone before. There were, he recalled, several trapped rooms in this area, and although there had been no such indications on any one of the cells, a trap might exist there, also.

 
Suddenly, he tilted the old map, squinting his eyes to see. There, just around the corner and inside The Hand’s quarters, there was something. The drawing had grown almost illegible in places and he could not quite make out what was indicated. Some sort of passage or tunnel, or at least a door.

  He folded the map, touched his tongue to dry lips, and stepped into the open.

  Nothing…

  He glanced both ways again, then turned to the right and walked to the corner.

  He turned, and found himself facing a Varanel! The guard saw him at the same instant and opened his mouth to shout. Mike Raglan had no time to think, to plan, to consider. He lowered the boom.

  He struck, straight from the shoulder with his weight behind it. The Varanel had automatically stepped toward him and caught the punch coming in. It landed right on the side of his chin, with his mouth open, and the jaw crumpled under Raglan’s fist.

  The Varanel went down hard, dropping his wand or whatever it was. Raglan stepped over him, his foot coming down hard on the tube, for such it seemed to be. Something in it broke and crumpled under his foot, and then Raglan was crossing the space to the doors of the cells. He was running when he reached the door. He grasped the handle to open the door but nothing happened. He spoke Erik’s name, listening for a response.

  There was none. He turned and jerked open the next door and was staring into the eyes of four Varanel grouped around a table.

  One of them, obviously an officer, reacted quickly. His command, whatever it meant, was directed at Raglan. He spoke quickly, sharply. It was obvious the idea that Raglan might not obey was completely beyond his comprehension.

  Raglan realized this at the same instant that he saw, hanging on a hook just inside the guardroom door, a ring with several large keys. Reaching up, he took the keys, then stepped back and pulled the door shut.

  There was a shout from within but he had already turned away.

  There was a narrow passage alongside the guardroom and he stepped into it, running lightly until he faced two doors, one on either side. He moved quickly to the one on his left, thrust the key home, and turned it.

  The door came open under his hand but he did not enter. He reached for his flashlight and shot the straight golden beam into the darkness.

  On the floor, apparently unconscious, lay Erik Hokart.

  At Raglan’s feet there was a small ramp. Behind him the door was swinging slowly shut.

  CHAPTER 38

  Raglan stepped back quickly, but in the moment the heavy door swung shut, Erik’s eyes opened and looked straight into his. Then the door closed and Raglan stood alone in the passage.

  There was a rush of feet behind him and Raglan turned swiftly, drawing his pistol as he turned.

  The nearest man was not ten feet away. Lifting his left arm as if to ward off a blow, Raglan fired from under the elbow.

  In the rock-walled passage the gun boomed like a cannon, and the bullet caught the charging Varanel in the chest. Whatever armor he might be wearing under that blue jerkin was no defense against the .357.

  Raglan fired again, and a second man clutched his stomach and plunged face downward on the floor.

  Shocked, the others halted, then scrambled to run, horrified by this unexpected resistance. For so long they had believed themselves invincible and invulnerable, and now two men had been struck down in seconds. The first was dead, the other screaming. Brave though they might be, nothing in their life experience had prepared them for this, but Raglan knew that once the shock was over they would return.

  Swiftly, Raglan stooped and caught the dead man by the collar. Again he opened the massive door, but this time he dragged the Varanel’s body into the opening to prevent the closing of the door. Stepping over the body, Raglan ran down to where Erik was struggling to rise.

  Grasping his arm, Raglan wheeled toward the door, half-dragging Erik behind him. Somebody was outside, trying to pull the dead Varanel from the opening. Letting go of Erik, Raglan leaped over the body, and as the man outside dropped the dead man’s foot and reached for a weapon, Raglan drove the muzzle of the heavy gun into the man’s face.

  The Varanel fell backward, rolled over, and lunged to escape. Raglan reached back, caught Erik’s hand, and pulled him through the door.

  “Can you walk?”

  Erik nodded, but his weakness was obvious. His face was ghastly, and there were bruises as from a beating.

  For an instant Mike glanced left to right. On the left lay the maze from which he had emerged, a death trap for a man in a hurry pursued by men who knew the maze. To the right the passage went straight for some fifty feet and then curved away out of sight. What lay beyond he had no idea.

  Directly opposite was a door to what he believed was the quarters of The Hand. Gun in hand, he pressed the wooden block imbedded in the stone, and surprisingly, this door, too, swung open. Beyond was a lighted entrance and a screen before a door that looked to be carved from ivory. Raglan stepped through the door, Erik following. Behind them the door swung shut.

  Almost instantly a voice boomed out, shouting harsh commands in a language neither understood.

  Ducking around the screen they found themselves in a sort of foyer, facing a concave wall in which there were four tall, narrow doors, two on each side of a gigantic figure of a leaping jaguar carved from black basalt.

  Frozen in its leap, jaws agape, revealing very real teeth and claws distended. Raglan was appalled and amazed by as frightening a piece of sculpture as he had ever seen. It was awesome, and splendid as well.

  Again the voice boomed out, obviously commanding them to leave.

  Raglan glanced at Erik. “Are you all right? Can you make it?”

  “Go ahead. I’ll try.”

  Four doors? He tried to remember his map but did not recall anything such as this. In fact, there had been no details of these apartments, if such they could be called. Were these doors traps as well? Obviously at least one of them was not, but which one?

  Raglan dropped to his heels to examine the doors as well as the floor. One door had to be used more than the others—perhaps even two doors. If there was a trap here, that door would show the least use.

  The building was very ancient and here, as in some of the castles and cathedrals of Europe, the stone itself was worn by the passage of feet. Raglan stood up and pressed the block beside a door. It swung slowly open.

  Beyond was light, and they walked through, Mike Raglan, gun in hand. What lay beyond he did not know, but what he wanted now was a way out.

  An angry voice boomed at them again, but this time there was a tinge of hysteria.

  “What is it?” Erik whispered. “Can that be a man’s voice?”

  “Speaking through some kind of a tube or trumpet,” Raglan suggested. “I doubt if anyone has ever refused to obey its commands before.”

  Then, surprised, Raglan looked at Erik. “You mean you have not seen The Hand? I thought you would have been interviewed by him?”

  “It was the one called Zipacna. From what I heard, The Hand appears to no one.”

  They stood now in a vast domed room. Facing them was a stone wall, not quite waist-high. Beyond it was a vast gulf of emptiness, and beyond that the gigantic head of what must be an idol with bulging eyes, fat cheeks, and a gaping mouth. A tongue was thrust from that mouth, and the tongue was hinged.

  “It’s like Baal, the god the Carthaginians worshipped. They sacrificed children to him—often as many as five hundred at a time.

  “Fires burned in the belly of the monster and the sacrifices were thrown on the tongue, which they tilted back on hinges and dropped the children into the fires.”

  This was a nightmare from which Raglan dearly wished to awaken. There were doors to the right and left of the idol, and they took the one on the left, hurrying now.

  The door opened onto a passag
e leading toward the back of the building, not where he had hoped to go. He led the way along the passage, watching for a turn. It came suddenly, and they went to the right. Now he slowed their pace. Erik, his strength weakened by who knew what privations, was making hard going of it.

  Erik stopped, leaning against the wall. He shook his head. “Better go without me,” he panted. “No strength.”

  “Take your time. We’re going out, and we’re going together.”

  From somewhere deep within the building there was a low rumble. Then the voice spoke, this time in English: “You will die! Now there is no escape!”

  The Varanel did not seem to have followed. Were they denied entry, even in an emergency? Or was this the precinct of some other force? The Lords of Shibalba, for example?

  There was no sound from around them. Raglan thought back to the map on the gold plaque, then to the other from the Archives. There seemed to have been a passage that led from this area back to the old temple that had become the Hall of Archives.

  Those maps were very old. How many now knew of that tunnel? He closed his eyes, trying to recall every detail of the maps.

  “Starved,” Erik muttered. “Starved me.”

  They had to get out of here. Raglan took Erik’s arm. “Come on! We’ve got to keep moving!”

  Twice he tried doors, but each time they did not respond to the pressure of his hand upon the wooden blocks. Were these always closed? Or had they some means of locking all doors from some center of control?

  Worried, he hurried on, occasionally slowing to allow Erik to catch up. They had to get out of here, and there was so little time!

  Yet he saw no one, saw no sign that these passages were even in use. Suppose he encountered another maze? Or was turned back into the one from which he had so recently escaped?

  On his left, he was sure, were the apartments of The Hand, but he had no business with him. The sooner they could get out, the better.

  Another door on his right, and he pressed the wooden block. The door swung slowly outward. Before him were three steps down, and then a tunnel. Should he chance it?